Part Nine

Conclusion

Another year and a half passed, Jeff received an offer from National Geographic to write an article to accompany the incredible photos Wood's Hole had brought back from the Mariana's Trench last month and he was beginning to make a name for himself as a careful and innovative researcher. Sergeant Richard Grayson had disappeared from the BPD active duty roster without explanation and he was unable to find anything about the young man no matter where he searched.

The newish vigilante, Nightwing, was still active, though and Jeff was convinced that was Dick in a new costume.

Bruce Wayne continued the playboy gig with varying success since he seemed to be tiring of the game himself, going about the society circuit with what seemed to be less and less enthusiasm.

Well hell,maybe he was finally growing up. It had to happen some time, didn't it?

Or maybe he was just bored.

Jason was back in jail, no surprise. He'd been in a bar fight, he was drunk and the other guy ended up dead after being hit over the head with a full bottle of scotch wielded by Jeff's big brother. He did make a point of visiting him when he was in the area which, thank god, had only been once since the sentencing.

And today.

"So, you know I really wanted to thank you, Jeffy—I mean it. No one else from the family gives a rat's ass and here you are in the flesh. Honest to god, you're okay."

"Yeah, well...so you're all right? You holding up in here?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." He smiled at the carton of cigarettes Jeff had brought, along with the magazines and the new Stephen King.

"So look..." Jason leaned closed to the glass partition. "I know you like to keep an eye out for Robin, right? I have some news for you, a kind of payback for not forgetting me,. Y'know?"

What the hell? "Is something going to happen?"

Jason looked around the room. "Yeah, you see him, you tell him to watch his back and to stay away from the gambling ring over at the track, okay?"

"Something's going to happen to him..."

"That's all I'm sayin', okay? That's it. Jeffy, you see Mom, you say hello for me, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, but..."

"You're a good kid, you always were and now you're a big-shot."

The guards signaled the end of visiting hours.

"Keep your nose clean, kid. Write a letter sometime from all those fancy places you go, okay?"

Jeff nodded as he stood up top go. "I will, I promise, a letter and pictures, too. Take care of yourself, Jase."

The guard had his elbow and was pulling him away. "You know it, kid."

* * *

Robin. No, Nightwing was in danger and Jeff suspected that if he sent a letter to GCPD, to Commissioner Gordon that it would be passed on. Dick wasn't working for BPD anymore and he'd left under the cloud of some kind of internal scandal that had been hushed up.

That was something Jeff didn't understand—how could someone like Grayson, with his brains, his training, education and access to anything he wanted, how could he end up floundering the way he seemed to be? It didn't make sense.

There had been that mother of all screw-ups when he (Dick Grayson or Nightwing, same thing, right?) was supposed to marry that alien woman from the Titans and the infernal mess that turned into. There was his dropping out of school; two of them, in fact, both Hudson and GU. There was the record of him buying the circus his family used to work for and then the damn thing burned to the ground...Jesus, the guy was on a straight roll of craps the last couple of years.

He shook his head at the latest news. Well whatever. Be that all that as it may, he was going to keep doing what he'd decided years ago when he first realized the kid was head and shoulders beyond being just a rich man's charity case.

He was going to be his silent back up, his early warning device and his secret Santa. It would be his second career, his hobby and his pleasure to do it.

* * *

"So, what happened with that gambling racket you were working on?" Batman paused in his keyboard typing when Dick walked out of the shower, grateful that their years long estrangement seemed to be over. He'd missed the young man.

"Strange. I was about to make the bust, all ready to go in and when I got there I found that GCPD had beaten me to the punch—seems someone tipped them off. I ended up just going home and making an early night of it."

"Lucky you."

"But the weird thing is I have no idea how the cops got the bust before I did. I've been working on that case alone for three months and..."

Bruce stopped and looked over at the young man and took a couple of beats before speaking. "Don't let your ego write checks you can't cash—that's how you get hurt. Be grateful the bad guys were stopped—that is the point, isn't it?"

"But that means they have contacts I don't."

This time Bruce actually smiled. "Do I really have to remind you that you're not the only one who fights crime for a living?"

Giving up, Dick just shook his head.

* * *

Another year passed, mostly uneventful aside from Dick—or rather Nightwing's work with the Outsiders, a new group with some of his old Titan friends. While it was good to see one another again, it wasn't the same and he ended up being a part-timer, happy to come if needed but content to spend time on his own as well.

He moved to New York; a new city, a new beginning.

He needed a reason to be there, at least for public consumption and ended up letting Bruce pull some strings (and donating over ten million dollars to grease the way) to get him the curator job at the Cloisters, a subsidiary of the Metropolitan Museum of Art over on 5th and 82nd. This was their Medieval free standing building way the hell uptown in Tryon Park, a fabulous recreation of a French Cloister, most famous for it's Unicorn Tapestries. Dick spent weeks cramming middle ages art, architecture, costume and anything else he thought might be needed. The existing staff clearly thought he was a light-weight dilettante until he opened his mouth to prove he actually knew what he was talking about (enough to bull his way through, anyway) and agreed that he would be useful to help raise funds from Wayne's extensive circle of monied friends.

And he could use the sub-basement as his base of operations.

Settled in, he tried his hardest to really be a good head of the place, snowed by the endless ass-kissing, endless paperwork and social requirements but did his best to take it with good grace.

He learned to hate his day job.

And he had to get Nightwing established and trusted, something he'd just through the wringer with down in Bludhaven. Gypsy circus kid or not, truth be told, much as he embraced a new challenge, this was starting to get a little old.

Okay, 'uneventful' was a relative term.

One afternoon while eating a sandwich at his desk he thumbed through the latest Scientific American, his eyes catching the by-line on an article about new developments in extreme deep sea submersibles. The author was Jeffrey Tabor, Ph.D.

Jeff, his old tutor; nice to see he was doing well and that answered the unasked question about how he was doing in his career now. On impulse he googled the name and found several pages of hits for the man, including an announcement that he'd be lecturing at the American Museum of Natural History the coming Thursday, three days hence.

Well, what the hell. It was just downtown and it wasn't like he didn't have a reason to be curious. He hit the intercom button, "Hey, Marge, could you get me a ticket to...?"

At seven-thirty he walked up the steps, showed his credentials and was shown to his reserved seat in the front row. There was god turnout and as the program started Dick was impressed by how Jeff had grown in confidence and as a speaker. He was articulate, obviously immersed in his field and entertaining. He clearly loved what he did and conveyed that, sharing his wonder at the vastness of the world's oceans.

Afterward, after the end of the talk, after the Q and A was finished Dick made his way over to where Jeff was standing with about half a dozen admirers. Waiting his turn, he held out his hand, "Jeff, it's good to see you again—and I enjoyed your talk." And in case he'd forgotten, he added, "'Dick Grayson. You were my tutor a few years ago."

Taking the outstretched hand, Jeff did his best to go for cool, professional, unimpressed but pleased. "Good lord, it's been years; you look well, life must be treating you right."

"'Can't complain. Look, I understand if you're booked, but if you'd like, I'd love to catch up over dinner or a drink when you're done here."

Jeff looked around at the thinning crowd and hoping to god that Grayson really did just want to catch up out of politeness and wasn't going to grill him about...things. But, "'Sounds good, say half an hour?"

His commitment to the lecture finished, Jeff and Dick walked down Central Park West, making small talk, until they came to a decent looking bar/restaurant. "This okay for you?"

Jeff gave the posted menu a quick once-over. "I can never eat before one of those things, if that's okay with you."

Dick nodded, "I'm hungry myself, c'mon."

They strolled a few blocks downtown, it was a nice night and the city itself was at peace, or as much as it ever is. Finding a decent looking Italian place they checked out the posted menu and went in. Seated, beers in front of them and their orders given Dick started the conversation.

"I keep seeing your name in the paper and on the Internet, you're doing well; didn't you just get a permanent posting to Woods Hole?"

"Last month, yeah."

"'Life's dream, wasn't it?"

"Pretty much, uh-huh." Jeff emptied half of his glass. "And you ended up a museum curator. I have to admit, that surprised me when I heard."

"You heard?" Most people wouldn't have a clue who curated their own living room, let alone a place in New York.

"I guess I've been keeping up with you, too." Dick gave him a look that made Jeff feel like he was about to be interrogated and not in a good way. "I mean, after I spent a month and a half tutoring you when you were hurt, I felt involved, y'know?"

"Not really." Dick kept up his steady look. "'Not to split hairs, but frankly you were a temporary employee for less than two months there and it's not like we've been exchanging Christmas cards."

Jeff stalled for time, wishing he'd never agreed to have a drink, let alone dinner with Grayson. "You're not exactly low profile."

"In fact, I am. It's Bruce who gets the gossip headlines. I'm just...me." All right, that was a bit disingenuous.

The waitress arrived with their food, causing a small break in the tension Jeff hadn't realized was as thick as it was.

Dick glanced at the woman, mumbled a soft 'thank you' and waited for her to leave. "In fact you've been keeping an eye on me since you left the Manor when I was sixteen, despite the fact that you haven't had any reason to since then. Is there something about me you find particularly interesting?"

"Um, no, no, it's just that you're, y'know, smart and ..."

"And related to Bruce Wayne? Or is there more to it than that?" Like maybe you think I used to be Robin, making Bruce Batman?

"No, no...nothing more."

Dick considered his options. He'd known for years Jeff at the very least strongly suspected his other life, the question was what to do about it, So far he hadn't done anything untoward or which could cause harm or damage. The silence was making Jeff uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.

Without warning Dick smiled, his entire body relaxed and he morphed into a genial, warm and friendly young man. "How's your food?"

"...Good. 'Yours?"

"Not bad. So, when do you leave to go back to sea? Man, I read that you were with that first expedition down to the capitol of Atlantis—that must have been incredible, did you meet the King and get a real chance to actually look around or were you guided the whole time?"

"It was incredible, we were allowed access to just about anything we wanted..." From then on the conversation flowed easily, two old friends catching up and enjoying one another, or so it would seem to anyone watching.

An hour or so later, meal finished, the two men stood on the sidewalk, saying their amiable goodbyes. Their hands were still clasped when Dick smiled and commented, "You know, Bruce gets upset if he thinks someone has a hidden agenda when it comes to him or people he cares about. He's...protective."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, I'm just saying. 'Good to see you again, Jeff. Be careful on that ship, I hear they can be dangerous if you don't watch yourself. 'Take care."

2/13/10